


Favorite Record (You Were the Last Good Thing About this Part of Town)

by everysinglefuckingusernameistakenjesus



Series: Tempest in a Teacup (We're the Things that Love Destroys) [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Andy just wants to be a vegan princess that's all, Brendon's a little shit, Joe doesn't know what the fuck is happening, M/M, Patrick has so much angst so much, Pete's just really emo, gay vampires - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6499219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everysinglefuckingusernameistakenjesus/pseuds/everysinglefuckingusernameistakenjesus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had been extremely lucky, living as a 3/4 human, vampire hunting gang for so long in the most infested city in America. They'd been extremely lucky, being able to save the 1/4 that wasn't quite as human as the rest of them. They were extremely lucky, not ending up half dead on sidewalks in the windy city, their blood decorating street and hunger gnawing at their chest, like most of their friends did. But Patrick understood with perfect clarity that luck could only last so long, that the smoothie that he’d been feeding Pete and desperately trying to improve was getting less and less effective, and that Andy's little science experiment with witchcraft and wards wasn't going to keep them or their friends hidden forever. They had been using every cheat, back door, and clever trick in the book and that was bound to bite them in the ass one day.</p><p>The rumors are true. Karma is a bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If Home is Where the Heart is, Then We're All Just Fucked

Patrick didn’t like waking up. It was actually his least favorite thing to do, and he spent his days (nights) shooting things, running for blocks and blocks (even though they owned car), and, sometimes, having holes ripped in his neck by porcelain teeth that stained red as naturally as he bled it. He didn’t like the way it felt or the how quickly he went from completely comfortable to hot and achy and needing to move.They often went for days and days with no sleep, running off of adrenaline, coffee, and the fear of being eaten alive if they stayed still for too long, and, when they did sleep, it was only for two or three hours at a time. Even then, it was restless, dreamless, or plagued with nightmares about curly hair and tattoos splattered with blood, broken glasses and blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. So, when he felt his mind come back to him, and became aware of the sheets around him and the presence next to him, he spent a good fifteen minutes trying to force his mind back into his piss poor excuse for sleep. Sometimes it worked, and he would add another two hours to his three. But other times, he couldn’t coerce himself into that trap. He would lay and stare at the boy sprawled on top of the blankets (he sent off enough waves of cold from there) next to him, and the way that his chest moved and his face scrunched up and relaxed, scrunched and relaxed, again and again, like a broken record while he dreamt. His hair (which, for a twenty-four-year-old, was kind of ridiculous) would fall into his closed eyes in strands long since destroyed by hair dye and straighteners. He would trace his eyes over every line of every tattoo that he got at two in the morning, hammered and in desperate need for some sort of pain to clear his head of thoughts that went on rampages through his already trashed mind. He would relish every detail of this miracle as though, if he were to turn away, he would be gone, snuffed snuffed in the wind like a fragile flame. He would gather all of the details and all the facts that he had memorized every evening before, and he would store it away in his memory incase he ever began to forget. In case he ever began to forget about how badly he wanted to sing from the rooftops at the top of his lungs every goddam day, vocal arrest be damned, about his miracle. He would want to cry out and yell and scream and tell everybody in the whole world about the way his knees bent to painful-looking ninety degree angles when he was really playing his bass, fingers shredded to pieces and heart pinned to the neck with the strings, and how his lyrics not only spoke, but bled off of the scrap paper and receipts that were shoved into Patrick’s hands like crack on the street corner, the tune hummed quietly by a voice that didn’t really think it was one. 

Of course, he didn’t scream. Patrick would lay there, staring at his favorite broken record, and thank God that they were both still breathing, even if there was only one beating heart between them. And he would force himself up and get coffee and roll his eyes while Joe flirted with Andy, who acted oblivious but knew with perfect clarity that he needed to kiss that stupid nineteen-year-old pothead like he needed oxygen. He’d entertain himself with fixing a gun or documenting an attack, or playing his guitar (which, granted, he didn’t get to do too much anymore), and he’d wait until his record would stumble out of their room, drunk or hungry, and chug one smoothie and half of another, and the red would look like blood when it dripped down his chin and came to a halt at the hem of his shirt like water at a dam. His eyes would lock with his record’s and, well, he wasn’t sure what those eyes said to each other. It wasn’t an apology or an excuse, or even an “I love you.” It was, perhaps an understanding and acknowledgement of the situation that they were in. That, if it weren’t for the God-awful mixture of garlic, holy water, and pig’s blood, that his record would have drained every drop out of him in grimy motel bathtubs and on last night’s stage. That that not-so-bloody mary which was growing less and less effective everyday was the only difference between him and his ice-cold corpse.

Maybe it was fucked up, thinking about his boyfriend draining him dry in the middle of the night so often. Maybe the more fucked up thing was that he continued to sleep in the same bed with him. Maybe he was the most fucked up thing of all. Oh well. He figured that being fucked up was better than being insane, but, then again, he couldn’t really prove that he wasn’t both.

He woke up after the sun went down, the duct tape smothering the windows in layers upon layers blocking any lingering light. Somehow, he knew that that evening, no amount of gentle coaxing or bodily treat was going to get him back asleep, no matter how much he wanted it. His entire body was sore, aching like bone-deep bite marks ached from overuse and exhaustion. His practice of running around Chicago in the middle of the night with his high school rock band carrying sharpened table legs and net guns as weapons did nothing for the condition of his body, let alone his mental disposition. He let his long eyelashes block his vision a little bit, the light from the alarm clock and the hallway shining off of them in a mirage of sunlight. He had realized a few weeks ago after going on a coffee run at three in the afternoon (long after his bedtime, according to Andy), that he missed the sun desperately. He could go outside and feel it on his skin and in his soul any time he pleased, but he didn’t, at least, not very often. Before that night in the alley when the entire world seemed to stop and then start up again in fast foward, he had felt the same way about the moon. He would look up at it when he could see it, and he would wonder why the world lived during the day time. His mom used to call the moon Luna, and she would point up at it and tell him that it was smiling down on the world, happy that they were both still there. He liked that about his mom. She had a lot of important things to say in quiet tones when he wasn’t expecting them. But now, he was familiar with the moon. He saw the moon all the time, and he still loved it, but it had lost its wonder. He thought that that was what happened to extraordinary things. They were like polaroid pictures, and when they were over-exposed, they lost all of their color. Luna was still beautiful, but she was also an old friend, whose beauty he knew every line and crevice like he knew his record’s. 

He almost tripped over the blankets tangled in his legs like he did every morning, and made his way out of their room which was littered with dirty t-shirts and band posters that he put up when he was sixteen (for example, the Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge one that Gerard still gave him grief over), but could never be bothered to take down. He was embarrassingly proud of the record collection that was in boxes piled against the wall next to the door six feet high, and he ran his fingers across the cracked and worn covers, alphabetized from AC/DC to Zeppelin. His bare feet were cold against the concrete floors of the warehouse, and the cardigan that he had shrugged on did nothing to combat the drafty air that they had no way of controlling. The thermostat in the abandoned and worn down building was broken long before they stumbled across it one night after a particularly vicious attack on their previous base (Joe’s mom’s attic). Everything had been as normal as it could be back then, what with the recent outbreak of undead bloodsuckers all over the world, and the imminent collapse of society. Panic! had decided not to get into all of this vampire shit, until one of them took Ryan and Brendon came pounding on their door, shirt covered in blood and a hole in his neck, scared the shit out of Mrs. Trohman, and collapsed on the front step. Andy and Spencer sharped some drumsticks and they went as crazy as seven emo teenagers needed to. They were too late, though, and Ryan was already one of them. 

Brenden slept on their couch for half a month after that. Jon left eventually, spouting some bullshit about his family being in New York and needing to get back to them, but Spencer was there the entire time to force him to eat and to talk to him, even when he wouldn’t talk back. Pete said to Patrick at one point, that, as in love Ryan and Brendon had been, they were completely self-destructive. He knew that Spencer wouldn't be like that because there wasn’t a force in the universe that could coerce him into hurting Brendon. They hadn’t seen the two of them in three years after they raided an office building that, according to their intel (Steve, who was commonly wrong, but wasn’t this time), housed an entire nest. They told them to wait, told them that they were an hour away if they speeded (laws weren’t really a thing anymore), that six people would be better than two, but by the time that they got there, the building was empty and there were two matching pools of blood that had just began to intertwine. They could only assume the worst. 

They were the only hunters in town after that for a while until a couple new kids, barely eighteen, stumbled in wide-eyed and passionate. Tyler and Josh were good guys, and they definitely had potential as hunters, even if Tyler still flinched every time he staked a vamp. He just hoped that they lasted longer than most other hunters that had operated in Chicago (track records were not impressive there, a year or two if they were lucky). He’d come to the realization recently that those kids and a few others, Halsey, Troye, Melanie, were the future of this city. He hoped that that future wasn’t completely populated by leeches with all the people six feet underground, hiding or otherwise. 

He wrapped his hand around his notebook, the worn leather softening at his touch, smearing the still wet ink from what he entered the night before, spreading it across the page pressed against it. The notebook seemed to always be with him, taped to his side like it was a firearm, ready to go off at any moment. He didn’t know why he’d begun documenting this really shitty experience, but he did, and he hoped that no one ever read it. He filled it with detailed descriptions of battles, raids and attacks, ticking off names on his Vampire Hit List, and scribbling out the names of hunters they lost. The most recent were Mikey and Ray, three weeks ago and he thanked God that he didn’t have to add them to the growing list of friends-gone-vamp, which started with Ryan, hald Pete in the middle, and ended with Billy Joe. They were hunting together, the eight of them, since they could do more damage that way, and he guessed that they just got lost in the maze of alleyways and backstreets. They got cornered by a couple of starving Punks and drained dry. Gee was destroyed, and Patrick hadn’t seen him since it happened. Gee said that he almost wished that they had turned them, so that maybe they could have pulled a Pete Wentz and domesticated them. Patrick had laughed and said that it was technically an Andy Hurley, since he did all the work, but agreed with him, even though he seriously doubted that they could pull that off. They were just really lucky that Pete was fantastic at holding a grudge and hated William enough to starve himself and stay away from the Dandies. Mikey and Ray never had that kind of anger, the kind that burned inside of them and didn’t let go until it was released on the rest of the world or destroyed them. Besides, Patrick was certain that Gerard didn’t want to watch his baby brother tearing people’s heads off. 

Andy smiled at Patrick as he emerged from the room as a way of greeting. He’d already gone for his run, Patrick noted, watching him search through the refrigerator, grabbing the almond milk for his coffee. Andy jutted his thumb towards the pot, and Patrick nodded, deciding that Andy Hurley was his favorite person to walk this God-forsaken earth as he poured a single black coffee and handed the merchandise over. Andy nodded towards the bedroom, asking about Pete. Patrick shook his head.

“Joe up?” Andy shrugged Patrick took that as a ‘Not sure, but I would assume not, seeing as he’s Joe.’ Andy had this was of saying a million things with no words. Patrick liked that about him. Andy didn’t need to scream or yell or even talk to express himself. He just was, existing in his own space, not interrupting anyone else’s . Andy wasn’t shy, it was just that he didn’t have anything important to say, so he didn’t say anything. When he really needed to say something, he would, but, until then, it was best to leave him in his silence. 

The evening dragged on as Joe emerged from his room, hair surrounding his face (it had gotten progressively longer, since none of them knew how to cut hair, and, at this point, looked more like a lion mane that he had to pull back with a rubber band when they were fighting like Andy did), and grumbled quietly under his breath about it being ‘too goddam early for anybody, especially someone as hung over as me, to be awake. Jesus Christ Andy, I swear to Nirvana if you set another alarm on my fucking phone I will tear you into tiny pieces and fucking feed you to Pete.’ Which was funny, in a way, but also not funny in another. He smiled, though, when Andy whispered ‘sorry,’ and gripped his arm tightly, the way that he did instead of hugging people because he didn’t do that a lot either. It dragged as Frank showed up with an update on Gee, saying that he actually ate something without being forced to that day, which was an improvement, seeing as a few weeks before hand, all he’d eat was pills and whiskey, terrifying anyone who knew him enough to know about his history, most of all Frank, who had to watch him deteriorate again without the calm that Ray spread over rooms or the warmth that Mikey gave his brother. 

Eventually, around midnight, Patrick sat at his desk and opened his notebook, flipping past the first few pages of song lyrics and posters of early venues from 2001 stabled in, until he reached a clean page. He headed the page with a date, and began to write down names, starting with himself, Pete, Andy, and Joe, drawing a check beside each of them. He scrawled out Frank and Gerard’s names, checking them both off. He picked up his phone and called Tyler, finding that he, Josh, and Halsey were about to go on a hunt, and instructed them to call him after. Three more checks were added. He rang Gabe, and found out that they had sustained some injuries, and that Max had barely made it through the night. He put a check next to his name anyway, hoping that if he denied that he was in danger, that everything would be fine. He did that a lot, actually, more than he cared to admit. Troye had broken his hand by trying to punch a Dandy straight in the face, and Melanie was trying to get him to take the night off. He didn’t get any truly horrible news until he tried calling Hayley and she didn’t answer. That was one of the worst feelings he had ever experienced, and he could pinpoint the exact number of times it had happened, since he had a list in the back of the people who didn’t answer because they had holes where their necks should have been.

“Hey, you’ve reached Hayley the Vampire Slayer. If this is someone with a vamp problem, then try again, or try my partner, Taylor at 555-237-9098. If this is Patrick, I’m probably sleeping, so chill.” He’d gotten that voicemail twice, once when she was, indeed, asleep, and once when she broken her collarbone and Taylor was in a frenzy to set it. Both times had scared that absolute shit out of him, and he had marched right down there, stake in hand, ready to defend his family. But she had made it a point to have her ringer on high so that it would wake her up and Taylor knew to answer his calls even if they were both bleeding out on the floor so that they could get Andy down there to teach them how to suture. 

But she didn’t answer, which scared him more than a literal blood sucker sleeping next to him every night.

Taylor’s phone rang three times and he was going to lose his shit if neither of those fuckers answered. But he did, and his voice on the other side of the receiver was heart breaking. 

“Hello?” He said, his voice cracking half way through. He sounded like he had been crying, which was not something that Patrick had ever associated Taylor with. Taylor was kind of a broot, the kind of guy who was absolute steal until whatever he needed finished was finished. Patrick had never seen him cry before, even when they were knees deep in their friends blood and even Ray was blubbering. Patrick’s heart dropped all the way to his knees and he could barely speak past the lump forming in his throat. Andy was looking at him, his eyes piercing through him, burning a hole through him with questions that he couldn’t answer because he was so stricken. He’d made this call before. He’d heard this news. He’d given this news, but something about it made him snap every time in a different way.

“Taylor, hey it’s Patrick. I called Hayley and she didn’t answer. I figured that you would know what was going on.” There was a muffle on the other end of the line and Patrick could hear a sound sort of like a groan on the other end. After a moment, the line shuffled again, and there was a shaky breath.

“Yeah, yeah she wouldn’t , would she?” Patrick sucked in a breath. “Something happened last night, Trick. Hayley didn’t make it home.” He let the breath out, but it caught in his throat and sounded more like a sob. The last time he’d had this conversation, Tre was telling him that Billie Joe tried to rip his throat out after a particularly vicious hunt. He didn’t cry then, but he also has a job to do. They just marched over and staked him since Tre and Mike couldn’t. 

“Okay.” He said, pulling himself back from the cliff he was about to jump off of. “Okay, who was it and did they turn her?”

“It was the Dandies. And yeah, yeah, but I took care of it.” Taylor was stronger then, his voice sure and steady. He stopped being a friend for a second and became a hunter. Patrick still couldn’t do that, turn it off and on. He was either a human for weeks and weeks, fighting with himself at every turn, or a hunter for just as long, a complete killing machine, take no prisoners, and fuck the wounded. He didn’t like that about himself. 

“Okay. Do you want us to come over? We could bring you some food or supplies. Anything, dude, seriously.” He stopped. He knew he could go on for days about how sorry he was and how much he wished it had been him. But he cut himself short because a lot of people said that when Pete was bitten and he really didn’t want to sound like them. He still couldn’t help soaking his words in as much sympathy he could muster, which was a lot. He was human that week, afterall.

“No, that’s okay, Trick. I’ll be fine. You’ve got other people to take care of.” Patrick wanted to argue with him, to tell him that that wasn’t true, that it was ridiculous to believe that. But he didn’t because he knew that it was completely futile. He just swallowed his words and shifted in his seat. Andy had walked over to him and placed his hand on the small of Patrick’s hunched back, comfort and calm seeping into him from the silent man. Patrick would swear up and down that it was the whole magic thing that made that work, but he knew that Andy had done that for as long as they’d known each other, years before they knew magic and vampires and desperation to such a magnitude were things that they could have in their world. It was annoying, at times, being disabled by a single touch. He thought that maybe Andy was more magical than they gave him credit for. 

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” The line went dead as Taylor retreated back into himself. Patrick sighed and rubbed his temples, hoping that he could eradicate the headache growing there steadily as the clock on the table . Joe tapped his shoulder with the bottle of aspirin, one of the jumbo ones with two thousand pills in it. He figured that he could probably down them all and not feel a difference. Andy’s hand was gone and he figured that he was going to get Pete up.

“What the hell happened, Trick?” He said, quieter than he usually was. Joe was a loud person, but one of them had to be, otherwise nobody would listen to them. He was often inappropriately loud in situations that really didn’t need it, but, to many people’s surprise, he could be quiet and gentle when he wanted to. That was kind of what Joe did. He made people believe one thing to throw them off when the other was true. He had a secret wisdom and intelligence about him, one that he shared with exactly three other people. 

“They got Hayley, Trohman.” He said simply, swallowing four pills dry. 

“You’re fucking with me. The Dandies?” He nodded, and Joe threw his hands in the air. “She works- worked- in Punk territory. What was she doing near the Dandies?” His volume was growing and Patrick could feel the anger coming off of him in waves. He was kind of amazed at Joe’s ability to become angry so quickly. Every time Patrick had to say that sentence with someone else’s name in the middle, Joe was fuming because how dare they, or anybody for that matter hurt his family? Patrick, at that point, was just too tired to be angry.

Pete and Andy walked in, speaking in hushed tones, like they were afraid to interrupt Joe’s tantrum. Pete didn’t look like he usually did when he woke up, that was, tired, hungry, and pissed off. He looked worried, his eyes, still the soft brown that they’d always been, unchanged by the bite, were locked on Patrick with so many questions that he didn’t want to bombard him with. Patrick figured that that was why he let him sleep in his bed instead of the locker that they stole from the high school in the basement. No matter how much he and everybody else denied it, Pete was still Pete, emo haircut and all.

“Tell him what happened, Trick.” Andy said, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. Patrick exhaled. 

“The Dandies got Hayley, Pete. They turned her and Taylor had to stake her.” He could feel himself wading through the tension that he could have cut with a butter knife with every breath. Half of him expected Pete to blow up like he did with Mikey and Ray, or if he would try to eat somebody off the street. His eyes were deadlocked on Patrick, filled with something that he couldn’t quiet pinpoint. Maybe he was sad, maybe he was angry, maybe he was just feeling. He couldn’t tell, but, as fast as the emotion came, it disappeared, leaving Pete with his almost constant cold stare. 

Pete walked over to Patrick’s work table, fiddling with his gun for a second before picking it up and tossing it to him.  
Pete always had a way of surprising him. 

“Come on guys,” he said, flashing a toothy grin, “let’s get to work.”


	2. We're the Beginning of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things that I should have mentioned in the first chapter:
> 
> I have no idea when on the Fall Out Boy time line this is, but Pete is 24, Andy's 27, and Patrick and Joe are 19. I figure that you can picture them however you like depending on which era is your favorite. I do have an idea of where I want this story to go, but I'm doing this in between a bigger, personal project when my brain shuts down on it, so posting chapters is going to be pretty erratic. I am bad at spelling and commas, so I apologize for that. Most importantly I think is that I don't know how bipolarism really works, so I'm really sorry if I offend anybody with what I have in here. Thanks so much to everybody who read, commented, and left kudos on the first chapter. It seriously means a lot to me. Hope you guys enjoy!

_ “Pete? Pete, fucking Christ, if you don’t answer me right now I will  personally stab you in the eye with a foreign object.“ The words above him were filled with anger and venom, poisoning his ears as he became aware enough to hear at all. The voice above him, however, was not angry, or dangerous, and it didn’t hold any true venom. It was yelling, but it  was worried and filled with a lot of fear that he didn’t think belonged there.  He knew that voice.  He knew that that voice belonged to tattoos and rapiers and quiet counsel in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep because his brain was launching a full frontal assault against him.  He felt like he was holding onto that voice for dear life. That if he let go of it, he’d die.  Nevertheless, he liked it. He liked the way it washed over him, the way that he felt connected to it. Too connected, if he really thought about it.  His line of work didn’t allow for attachments. _

_ His line of work. He wondered if lines of work were even things anymore.  _

_ He couldn’t feel his fingers. He was sure that he was moving them, that he was wiggling them up and down, but he couldn’t tell if he really was because they felt like he had stuck them in a bucket of ice water for ten minutes . His eyes wouldn’t open either, which just brought his brain to a whole set of assumptions about his condition that he didn’t really want to consider.  He wished they would open, his eyes, because then he could confirm that he was indeed wiggling his fingers (the fact  that he didn’t know seemed to be bothering him quite a bit), and he could see the owner of the voice.  But those stupid eyes were really stubborn and he was absolutely positive that he was drunk.  It made quite a lot of sense, if he did say so himself. It would definitely explain the dull throb of pain in his neck. He must have gotten another tattoo. He was really curious  as to what it was, since he never really knew  what was permanently carved into his body until the morning after he got it, and it usually took him another two or three days to piece together the logic that his intoxicated brain had used for it.  _

_ He finally got his eyes to cooperate partially, cracking them open slowly like Egyptian tombs. He’d been crying. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he knew. That was funny. He didn’t make a habit out of crying. He didn’t like it, the emotional release. He had a lot of other ways to express how he felt. Like booze, for example.  Even though his eyes were open, his vision was blurred and only offered general shapes and colors. There was a big mass of peach and brown in front of him, and he tried blinking fast, because that normally worked  when his vision was being a little bitch, but not this time. But despite the lack of clarity, he was fairly certain that the blob in front of him belonged to the voice. He really wanted to make sure, though  because there was always the chance that he was wrong and if he  _ was  _ wrong, that could mean- _

_ A wall of pain hit him so suddenly that he couldn’t even think. It was like someone had taken his spine, ripped it out of him, dipped it in gasoline, stuck it back in, and set it on fire. He could feel his nerve endings spreading the flame, burning down his entire nervous system until it hit the brain and fried him completely.  He wasn’t hurting a moment ago; he couldn’t feel anything but suddenly everything  was on high alert, and he could feel every inch of his body.  His eyes blew wide and he could surprisingly see everything very clearly past the tears that had begun to spill over his cheeks again. He was right, though, the blob, the boy, in front of him was indeed  the voice, but he couldn’t pinpoint a name, and that pissed him off a little.  He wanted so badly to figure out his name because, even though he had a lot of other things  on his plate,  he just really knew that this was important. The voice was talking to him, telling him to breath, telling him that it was going to be okay, and Jesus,  Pete, you’ve got to be still .  The voice sounded like it was  yelling, screaming straight into his ear and he could hear the words but he didn’t really understand them. His head was pounding and he could feel his neck ripping apart  again  and he just wished that Andy would- _

_ Oh.  _ Oh. 

_ It was like  that time when their tour van skidded off the road and crashed into a tree.  That was the only thing that he could compare it to.  Like everything came to a sudden halt with shattered glass and panicked yells.  His mind, which had been submerged in molasas was cleared, his confusion broken in a moment of pure adrenalin and pain. He’d been bitten. That would explain why his brain refused to work and  the dulled pain, but something was wrong. It didn’t happen like this. There wasn’t this much pain involved. Vampires always made their prey feel good, they made them want to be bitten. Fear and pain  tainted the blood, made it bitter, at least, that’s what they had heard. If they survived, the bite rarely hurt until they woke up, along with one hell of a headache and a lot of questions. But this pain was excruciating, like his body was full of glass that was being pulled out slowly so that he could feel every inch of it.  He’d never felt like this before. _

_ Andy was kneeling in front of him, his eyes locked on Pete’s, a few drops of blood spotting his glasses and cheek. He had a hand pressed against Pete’s neck, holding Patrick’s cardigan to the hole that  Pete honestly did not want to look at any time soon.  They were in  _ their  _ car, which meant that they’d gotten away. He pulled his eyes away from Andy and looked towards that front seats .  He could see a mass of curly hair sticking out from the driver’s seat , and the hair attached to a body with white-knuckled hands  gripping the steering wheel, speeding down the empty street towards wherever they were going. Maybe home. He  would have liked to have gone home. _

_ When he looked at the shotgun seat that he usually occupied, he was met with a pair of fantastic eyes They were big  and blue and green and worried and filled with a mixture of fear and anger. One of those eyes was covered by reddish-blonde hair and shaded by a hat that read “I  ♡ BINGO,” which he still didn’t get, but he liked it, for some reason. He was turned around in his seat, hands gripping the back of it, digging into the cushion. He looked like he wanted to say something, to acknowledge Pete, to let him know something that he’d meant to say  a million times but never did. Pete wanted to say something too. He actually wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss that tiny little son of a bitch in the back seat of Joe’s shitty car with a hole in his artery because he needed to. He  _ needed  _ to. He needed it like he needed water and food and his bass. He needed it like he needed pain killers, a few stitches and a fucking drink. He needed it like he needed to fix himself because, damn that kid would smile at him like he was everything.  He tried to lean forward, he tried to get to him because he needed to, but he couldn’t because Andy had his hand on Pete’s chest and the pain was was actually going to kill him.  _

_ The sound that came out of his mouth wasn’t one that he was proud of, so small and slurred and dead-sounding, but it was a sound that resembled ‘Trick.’ _

_ Patrick’s eyes lit up when he heard it and his hand shot from the seat to reach for him, latching onto Andy’s shoulder when he was too far. He looked so relieved to hear his name, as if he'd forgotten it and had been praying for someone to remind him since. He looked like he was going to cry or he already had,  but if he had been Pete could understand why. None of them had been bitten. They’d been going to their late night venues and they knew the risk, but they’d never actually been caught between a wall and a pair of fangs. And, yes, he was struck with the irony that he was worried about Patrick while he was the one who was bitten , but Jesus, he must have been terrified. He looked like he wanted to say something again, but Pete thought that the words wouldn’t come because they were daunting, like everything that came out of his mouth, but he finally decided on one word.  _

_ “Pete.”  _

“Pete?” There was a hand gripping his shoulder tightly, and he realized that he had been day dreaming. He blinked and looked up at the eyes that were so many colors and things all at once but were only ever  just Patrick. He was in the driver’s seat of the car, eyes baring the worry that Pete thought he’d seen too damn much since the night in the alley. He held his eyes there for a second and tried to make them look as reassuring as possible. 

“Sorry. Got inside my head and couldn’t get out.” He said by way of explanation. Patrick nodded, because he did that too, and flashed that smile. The smile that lit up rooms and dark alley ways that still smelled faintly like his blood. Patrick smiled at him like he was everything and he thought for a moment that he was. 

They were on the corner of  West 63rd and South Ashland Avenue, the beginning of Dandy territory. Behind them was Punk territory, roamed by kids clad in clothes like their own and haircuts that fell a little too much into their eyes,  and behind that No Man’s Land, where humans and freelancing vamps took their chances at survival. If they got through the South Side with no holes in their necks, they’d make it to Red’s kingdom, ruled by a  teenage girl turn vamp who knew how to rally troops and kill humans with Hitler like lethality.  People rarely ever went past West Irving Park Road, because, once they did, the government, who had taken control of Chicago a long time ago, had no power to protect them. The vampires had complete control from that point on, and they sure as Hell weren’t giving that up. They spent most of their nights there, not daring to venture farther than a few blocks, but trusting that Gee and Frankie were pushing on the other end. 

He pushed open the door and stepped out, moving the seat so that Andy and Joe could crawl out the back, whining that the two shortest guys got to sit in the front. His feet hit the ground, and he had to fight the urge to dash. They were about to step over the edge of territories, and the alley across from them was  _ the  _ alley. He could still see what was left of one of their posters on the abandoned club that was gracious enough to let them play. They were seriously bad the first few months, but the bar had a policy about new bands, since it was hard to get going. They got to play, the bartender slipped him shots, and they got pretty popular in town. They were headlining that night. So fucking proud that their album cover was on a poster in the club they’d been playing in for three years.  _ Take This to Your Grave  _ was their pride and joy, and it was selling. It had been the best night, they were all perfect. They were together, they were feeling every note. Patrick sung until his voice stopped working and by the time they reached the end, Andy’s hands were bleeding and Joe broke a finger, but they were all smiling like the world was finally being good to them, and it was perfect. Sure, they might have been emo vampire hunting high school rockers, but everything was perfect.

Until he was bleeding out on the sidewalk. 

Andy clapped his hand on Pete’s shoulder like he always did when they parked there. Pete nodded and they started walking in a formation. They had guns in their right hands, stakes in their left. It was sort of a triangle (they called it the Bermuda) with Joe and Andy in the back, Pete at the front and Patrick in the middle, since he had amo, information, and was the worst shot. He had his stake tucked under his arm and his notebook open to a page covered in scribbles and bullet points. 

“Okay guys, here’s the rundown,” he said, running his finger across the worn page and black ink, “so, from what I could get from Taylor, they were in Dandy territory by coincidence. They’d crossed the line without realizing it. They weren’t expecting any company, stakes away, guns holstered, and got ambushed by vamps. Hayley got bit, and turned. They made Taylor watch.”

“That seems unlikely.” Andy remarked. “They know where the line is, do you really think that they would just cross it?” 

“Apparently it was late, they’d been dealing with a lot of activity with the Punks and they were on edge. Besides, why would Taylor lie about this?” Patrick asked, flipping through his notes to see if he’s written that down himself. His eyes danced across the pages and he had to squint at a few things to make out what they said. Very few people could read Trick’s notes, seeing as they were both in shorthand, and he had the worst handwriting Pete had ever laid eyes on. He was thorough, though, and when he needed information, he found it, no matter who he had to go through. Pete was genuinely scared of Trick when he needed to know something. 

“So they were ambushed.” Joe said, scanning the alleys and abandoned buildings for any sign of company. There were a few street lights out a three  blocks ahead. They’d be weak under there.  “Did Taylor see who?” Patrick sighed then and clapped his notebook shut. He flipped his bag around and shoved it in among the pencils, burger wrappers, and extra clips. He stepped up until he was adjacent to  Pete, creating a square. He pulled his gun up and aimed in front of him, ready to fire so that, if there were any vamps, he’d wing them and Pete would stake them. It was a good process that they’d come up with years ago when Joe got shot in the arm by their reckless tactics. Andy had strategized for months to find a way to keep them all safe while getting the job done. He’d done a fantastic job, too. Patrick sighed again and adjusted his grip.

“‘Trick?” Pete said, sparing a glance to his right. 

“It was Ryan.” He said. They all stopped simultaneously, boots coming to a sudden halt in the asphalt. Pete turned to him as Andy stepped forward and covered them from the front while Joe covered the back. 

“What do you mean ‘it was Ryan?’” Pete asked, his tone dangerous. Patrick adjusted his hat and avoided Pete’s eyes. He didn’t want to tell Pete that one of his best friends had killed one of his other best friends, especially when he was as angry as he was then. When Pete was angry, you could tell and not in the way that you could tell Patrick was angry, that was, with broken plates and and sharp insults and extremely vulgar sentences. Vampires could sort of manipulate the emotions in their environment. If they wanted you happy, you were happy. If they wanted you scared, they didn’t have to try very hard, but sometimes it leaked. Sometimes when vamps felt extreme emotions, they couldn’t stop it from filling up the room they were in. This was a serious problem sometimes with Pete because his turn amped up his bipolarism more than was healthy, even for someone who had never truly been mentally healthy in the first place. When he was down, Patrick stopped singing and began to look longer at the List of the Fallen than the List of the Living. Andy did nothing but train, beating away at punching bags until his knuckles were broken and he couldn’t find a reason to stop. Joe probably got the worst of it. He normally stuck to the softcore drugs and alcohol, if not for him, then for Andy, who made him promise never to touch anything worse than weed. But when Pete’s pain was seeping into every core of his body, he locked himself in his room to keep himself from turning to his most natural crutch. Pete knew that when Joe’s door locked, Pete knew that he needed to spend some time in Andy’s cabin in Wisconsin. But when Pete was happy, Patrick player more and louder, ripping out his passion onto the beaten up acustic that he wouldn’t leave behind when the city was evacuated. Andy would go outside more, running in the morning instead of at night and feeling the sunshine and grass like the proper hippie he was. And Joe was sober. Unheard of. So maybe that was a good thing, but Pete’s emotions changed so much so quickly that it almost wasn’t worth the risk of 

So, when Pete was angry, they didn’t have to wait very long to find out. They could feel it crawling up from their toes to latch onto them completely. They’d spent a long time learning to control themselves when Pete was emotional, but even with those long hours with Pete projecting the most extreme emotions that they’d ever experienced, it was difficult to control themselves. 

“I mean that Taylor watched Ryan in a Dandy suit tearing Hayley’s throat out.” Patrick said, breathing deeply incase the fire licking away at his chest wasn’t his. He could see Pete’s confusion melt away into simple understanding.

There was always a breaking moment for Pete. He could remain hot and infuriated for weeks, but there was always a singular second where he turned cold and calculated and decided whether he was going to sit down where he was and take what he was getting, or stand up and fight off whatever was attacking him. Patrick could never tell which was the better choice for certain situations until they had played out. He just had to hope that it was the right choice. 

Like he hoped it was the right choice when Pete started marching along Dandy streets like the cockiest motherfucker in all of Chicago, which was a difficult feat, considering that there were some fat cats that roamed those sidewalks back in the day.

Andy and Joe quickly picked up the pace to keep the formation, and Patrick rubbed his tired eyes again. Sucking in the cold December  air, he hoped that it would clear his head like it did his lungs. He jogged up until he was next to Joe in the back, letting Andy and Pete take the lead. He could feel Joe’s discomfort and need to consol someone, to help them see things straight. That was sort of what Joe did, believe it or not. He made himself feel better by making someone else feel better. Gave a lot of good advice too, even if he wasn’t Andy on the wisdom scale. For a fraction of a second, Joe’s shoulder brushed against his with a slight nudge that made him distinctly aware of how much of a privilege it was to have that afro of a kid standing next to him. He smiled momentarily, if only to let Joe know that he felt him. If only to let Joe know that he was fine. He’d be called on his bullshit later because, how in hell could he be okay with brothers and sisters killed in the streets of his city. But that wasn’t a conversation for then. 

He was made aware of their presence by dress shoes landing on the pavement in the alleys branching off of every block. Every once in awhile there would be a slight cackle or a whisper. He could feel the wisps of negligence coming from each passage way, but Pete was trying very hard to keep them in the cold anger that he had mastered. They were peaking out with bright eyes from the shadows, watching every beat of their hearts. One human smelled strong enough to vamps who barely got a pint a day, let alone three all squished together with one of them drenched in garlic and holy water. This was actually a pretty common thing between them and the Dandies. One of them entered the other’s territory and they met for a second, talking small talk, exchanging information, trading supplies. It would have looked like a civil agreement if they didn’t start shooting right after. It was a complicated relationship, unlike any of the other vampire/human agreements, since there were none. Basically, they did their business and then it was all out warfare, no rules and a lot of consequences. It did allow them to expel a lot of frustration and take down a few vamps at the same time. They were desperately outnumbered every single time that they came and he was sure if Beckett unleashed his few army, they’d be eradicated, but, if they brought out every hunter they knew, the Dandies wouldn’t have a great time either. It was a silent deal that they’d made  a long time ago. Neither of them would bring more than the other could handle. Fair fights were their only fights, and with the amount of firepower that Pete brought to the table, it didn’t really seem to matter if Beckett brought ten or twenty. 

That’s who they were expecting. They were  expecting his long hair, top hat, and tea. They were expecting the face of an old friend stretched over the monster that stole it from him. They were expecting feeling partially sick, mostly angry, but they were surprised. When they walked up to the stop sign on the corner of S Ashland Avenue and West 60th, they saw something that they didn't think they ever would again. 

It was Ryan. 

Ryan standing in a perfectly white suit with his hair cut and fangs gleaming while he smiled. He was paler than he’d ever been and his eyes were flashing back and forth between them like he was searching for a reason to care about them again. He didn’t find one, but they settles onto Pete like he was a prize to be won. 

They always knew that he’d been turned. There was no denying it when Brendon came stumbling in covered in blood from both of them. That was never the question. The question was where he went when he did. They’d asked around, and by that they meant that they’d tortured as many vamps it took to get the information that they needed. Nobody knew anything, which just made them think he’d run away to live in the woods or something. When they asked Beckett, he said he had no idea and Pete believed him. But there he was. Patrick wanted to cry. 

Nobody was saying anything because the last time that they saw him he was on stage playing  _ Northern Downpour  _ like his life depended on it and they kept that sacred. They kept that perfect last memory of him so close and so safe that they didn't even talk about because they were afraid to ruin it for each other. Nobody could think of what to say. Nobody wanted to believe it because to believe it would tear  _ Northern Downpour  _ to shreds.

Andy was the one to talk first because he was the one to talk when nobody else knew how to begin.

“Ryan?” he asked quietly, but his volume didn't matter because Partrick swore he could have heard a pin drop onto a pillow. Ryan’s eyes snapped from Pete to Andy and Patrick clicked off his safety. 

“Hey guys,” he was in front of Andy in a moment, inches away and threatening. Patrick hated the way that they moved like Samara from  _ The Ring.  _ Pete didn’t do it unless he needed to, because every time he moved too fast for Patrick to see, he could swear that he was looking at Beckett instead.They repositioned, Pete standing behind Ryan, stake pushed into his back unnoticed, Joe on his right, barrel pressed against his head and Patrick over Andy’s shoulder, aiming his gun on Ryan’s forehead, his other hand resting on Andy’s back, hoping that the tactile comfort was enough to reassure him. Andy was shaking under his hand, Ryan pushing fear into him with ferocity, breaking down the walls that they’d spent a long time trying to perfect. Patrick could feel it leaking and he had to zero in on Pete’s cold anger to keep from flinching away. “It’s been a minute hasn’t it? I missed you guys.”

“Walk away Ryan.” Pete said. His voice didn’t shake like it usually did when he talked about Ryan.

“Oh, come on, Wentz, it’s been years. I’ve been waiting to see you guys for a while.” Patrick shifted on his feet, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I see you still get nervous holding a gun, Trick. You always were better with a guitar than a sidearm.”

“You don’t get to call him that.” Pete growled out. Patrick could feel a surge of anger and pain rush through him. That certainly struck a nerve, but Patrick didn’t blink at the nickname. It felt so natural in Ryan’s voice, just as natural as it did in Pete’s or Tyler’s. He fell for that, he guessed. He fell for the idea that they were friends. He fell for the idea that it was 2005 again and all they were concerned with was chord progressions and who was buying coffee because they were just a bunch of broke kids in buses that smelled like puke and each other. That was what he wanted and Ryan was giving it to him. Ryan was making him happy, making him sweeter.

Jesus.

“You’re right,” Ryan said, his voice breaking through the heavy silence that landed on top of them like an anvil. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have left. I should have come back and asked for help. But I’m going to make up for it, I promise. And I get that you guys need space and I’ll leave you alone for now. Just one more thing. I have to ask about Brendon. How is he, is he with you?”

Now that was a punch in the face. 

The first bit was shock enough, but the ending really brought it home.They just figured that he knew. Ryan always had a way of knowing. He never had to ask about Brendon because he was sort of connected. Patrick figured that with a vampire boyfriend, Andy casting warding spells all over their warehouse and Joe practically being able to read minds, Ryan and Brendon being mentally linked or some shit wasn’t the craziest idea. He figured that if anything bad ever happened to Brendon, Ryan would be the first to know. Like he’d be struck by lightning if Brendon had a paper cut. But something must have happened. Turning must have destroyed that bond. It must have torn him to shreds like it did Pete.

“Ry,” Joe said, reverting back to autopilot, but catching himself before he could fall into the honey trap, “Ryan he was turned. Two years ago.” Ryan’s head snapped to the side to stare straight into Joe, startling Patrick’s finger to the trigger. Joe sucked in a breath, holding it until Ryan blinked. Patrick was certain that he was going to snap. He’d been doing so well, holding himself stiff and proper, keeping himself in check. But Patrick had spent two year of up-close-and-personal down time with a hungry vampire and he knew the signs. His hands were twitching, his muscles were wound like a guitar string, his pupils were dilated, and he wasn’t looking them in the eye. He was watching every jump of their jugulars as panic was slowly seeping in like the cold. His instincts were screaming for him to shoot, to give Pete the second that he needed to drive the stake into Ryan’s heart but he didn’t just like he didn’t stake Pete when he was coming after their throats.

But Ryan surprised him like Ryan always did.

He pulled away from them in a matter of seconds, stepping back and running his hand over his mouth and nose, trying to hide their scents with his own and failing. 

“Oh.” He whispered from behind his hand. “Okay.” He began walking away, shoes clacking against the street, faster than he used to walk. As he moved away from them, Patrick swore he saw the scrawny kid in skinny jeans and a flowery vest, his bare feet hitting the ground instead of a pair of shoes he would never be able to afford. Patrick swore that he could see a kid that who was fucked up but was going to be just fine. More than fine. A kid who was going to be fantastic. Pete was stepping forward, trying to catch up to him, trying to get to him because no matter what happened they were always going to be Fall Out Boy and Panic! and there was nothing anybody could do to stop that, not even them.

“Ryan-”

“I meant it,” he blurted before Pete could finish, “I’m going to make it up to you guys.”

“Ry-” Pete tried.  
  
“Especially to you, Wentz.” 

And he was gone. They were silent, only their breathing and the shuffle of their jackets cutting through the air. Footsteps were echoing around them, the familiar sound of Dandies retreating giving them a little  reassurance. Andy’s hands were still shaking when Pete stopped following Ryan and walked over to him, placing his hand on Andy’s shoulder, pushing wave after wave of calm through them all. Patrick was racing with questions as Andy latched onto Pete’s arm like his life depended on it. Joe walked over, holstered his gun, and brushed his hand against Patrick’s. God, the kid was terrified, probably more than any of them. But through all that fear he was asking the right question, the one that Patrick couldn’t find trapped in his head. 

“What the hell just happened?”


End file.
